He kissed her, more than once, and put his arms about her, and felt how small and thin she had grown; then looking into her face he saw the change which only Magdalen had noticed. The burden was lifting, the cloud was breaking, and Laura was passing away. There was no particular disease, only a gradual breaking up of the springs of life, and as the days grew longer and warmer she drooped more and more, until at last she never left her bed all day, and rarely spoke except to Magdalen, who was with her constantly. Sometimes it seemed as if there was a gleam of reason struggling through the darkness which had shrouded her mind so long, but it never went much further than such expressions as, “I think I do remember the boy with the kind voice and soft blue eyes, to whom I gave Magdalen, but I can’t quite make out how that Magdalen and this are one.”
“I would not try now; I’d go to sleep and rest,” Magdalen would say, and obedient to the voice she always heeded, Laura would grow quiet and fall again into the deep slumber so common to her now.
In this way she lingered on for a few weeks, and then died quietly one morning in early June, when her husband was in New York and only Magdalen and Alice were with her. They knew that she was failing, but they had not thought the end so near, and were greatly shocked when, at a faint call from her, they hastened to her side and saw the pinched look about her nose, the deep pallor about her lips, and the sweat-drops upon her brow.
“Let me go for aunty,” Alice said, but her mother answered, “No, Alice, there won’t be time. I’m going somewhere, going away from here, and I want you and Magda to stay. It’s getting night, and the way is dark, and life is very weary. Give me your hands, both of you, my children.”
She acknowledged Magdalen, and with a cry the young girl fell on her knees beside the bed, exclaiming, “Mother, oh mother, you do know I am your child. Call me that once more.”
But Laura’s mind was going out after one who was not there, and she only whispered, “Where is Arthur? Allie, where is your father?”
“In New York,” was the reply, and a shadow flitted over the otherwise placid face, as Laura rejoined, “Always in New York, the old, old story. I wish he was here; tell him, will you, that I am gone, and before I went I left word I was sorry I had troubled him so much. I’d like to kiss him again. Magda, let me kiss you for him; give it to him for me, and if I don’t look very bad, ask him to kiss me back, but not unless I’m decent looking. He’s fastidious, and fancies pretty faces.”
She wound her arms about Magdalen’s neck and her cold lips gave the kiss for Arthur. It was their last; they never moved again, and when Magdalen unclasped the clinging arms from her neck and laid the poor head which had ached so long back upon the pillow, she saw that her mother was dead. They telegraphed at once for Mr. Grey, who reached home just at nightfall. They had dressed Laura in white and laid her on the couch with flowers in her hands and flowers on her pillow, and as if in answer to her wishes, the old worn look had passed entirely from her face, which looked smooth and fair and younger than the face of forty is wont to look. Many traces of her soft, girlish beauty clung to her still, and Mr. Grey, when first he went into the room and drew aside the muslin which covered her face, started, and uttered an exclamation of surprise at the unexpected beauty of his wife. He did like pretty faces, and he was glad that the Laura, who lay there dead, was like the girl he had loved so passionately for a few brief months. The sight of her as she was now with the placid look on her white face and the long eyelashes shading her cheek, brought back something of his former love for Laura Clayton, and kneeling beside her he wept tears of sorrow and regret for the life which had been so full of sorrow.
“Laura, poor Laura,” he said, and his hand fondled the cold cheek which would never again glow beneath his touch, “I wish you could know I am here beside you, and how sorry I am for the past. Dear Laura, I wish you had forgiven me before you died.”
“She did, father, and I am here to tell you what she said.”